


Private Project

by Animus_Vox



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dildos, Fluids kink, Other, Self-Service, Sex Toys, Solo Kink, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Animus_Vox/pseuds/Animus_Vox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perceptor is alone between projects, and decides to have a little fun self-servicing. Brainstorm sees way more than he was ever meant to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have incredibly wordy porn, so beware. You can physically pinpoint the moment where I became frustrated with continuing this story and switched gears to finish up the scene, but...oh well. Enjoy the gay robot filth, my fellow friends.

Relationships in wartime were messy. Relationships _before_ wartime had been messy, really - not that Perceptor ever _had_ any relationships that he could remember lasting. There had been a couple, and for whatever reason, he just never struck quite the right chord with them. But trying to start something _now?_ He couldn't even entertain the thought. Too many variables. Relationships required work, focus... _emotion._ The capacity to spare a few moments worrying for the well-being of another person every now and then, and not just in the way that Perceptor worried for the health of his comrades in arms. He'd have to devote time and energy to wondering if they would come back safe, if he'd ever be able to curl up with them again, kiss them again, if _this moment_ would be their _last moment,_ what they would do if they survived together -

Self-service, on the other hand, was a breeze. Toys didn't have thoughts or feelings. The only thing Perceptor needed was to slide back his paneling, get his circuits charged enough to wet his valve and, if he was being honest with himself, not even that much of an imagination anymore. There was always a mech or two the scientist considered _asking_. (Just casual, strictly comfort only, nothing lasting,) purely for fun and to let loose a little and perk up on particularly bad days. But thinking about those people while he had a toy in him was...in its own way...embarrassing. And a little shameful.

Perceptor didn't want to think he was playing substitute for anyone - because he wasn't. He just wanted to get off every once in a while, and he got plenty of perfect, blissful enjoyment by exploring his own body, knowing that he was bringing pleasure to himself.

Honestly, if he thought about it - leaning back at his lab desk, left hand around his spike and the right working the toy in his valve - he worried that bringing someone else into the equation would just be downright intimidating for both of them. Perceptor didn't know the first thing about pleasuring anyone other than himself, and he wasn't sure he would have the confidence to lead someone around his body. He'd really rather just...squeeze a little tighter around the base of his spike...spiral his thumb around the tip, spread the prefluids... _ahhh._ That made it better.

He cycled out a long breath of hot air from his vents, optics dimmed, but focused. And it accomplished _exactly_ what he was looking for; he could feel his nerve circuits lighting up like festival lights, little prickles and pings of wonderful, warm sensation that went straight to his valve. Which Perceptor could feel was reacting by releasing more lubricant, and he pressed his toy inside when he felt his body give just enough, and when the warmth from the heating core nestled in the toy's center combined with the sensations when he was moving it inside himself -

Perceptor _moaned,_ satisfied and content. He tried to keep quiet; wanted to avoid a disturbance at all costs. But it was there, and he trusted he was alone. So he tested the pull of his calipers, rocking his hips a little eagerly and biting his lip when it bumped along some sensitive nodes, and when he was satisfied, the scientist flicked a sliding dial at the base of the toy which started up a low, crackling pulse of energy. It traveled up the length of it, _barely_ anything at all (the settings on this thing, he could set it so high it would have him _screaming_ ), but it was enough to leave his paneling and thighs and the seat underneath him slicked, rippling over the inside walls of his valve just enough to make him shudder.

He tipped his head back and offlined his optics, groaning again happily when another slow pulse traveled up and caused him to arch his hips into the next thrust. He stopped stroking his spike to reach down instead and rub along one of his thighs, tracing the inside transformation seam up to the joint where Perceptor reached in and played along some of the protected wiring there. He was rewarded with traveling shadow-paths of sensation that encouraged the scientist to suck in his plaything a little harder, calipers cycling down in a matching rhythm. He sank a little lower in his seat, vented thickly again, thrust a little quicker.

Perceptor thought about what it would be like if he ever actually _did_ have someone doing these sorts of things to him. He didn't _talk_ about it with anyone - but _sure,_ like a lot of the mechs he worked with, Perceptor got lonely. He got lonely a lot. He just wasn't too fantastic on his approach, so he felt like his options were kind of...limited. But having _someone..._ that might be nice.

He didn't really think of anyone in particular; just more or less about his _type._ Someone small and sporty and sleek. If he was lucky, they would have some nice biolights to go with their paint job, and he could just imagine someone like that between his legs, grabbing his spike and pumping it in their hand while they tasted him. While they nipped and sucked at his thighs and cleaned him out of every trickle of lubricant that came out of him. _Ugh..._ he _whimpered._ That would be _perfect._

The mess of lubricant staining his thighs and pooling on his seat threatened to give Perceptor the right amount of frictionless contact to let him slide right off. He didn't let it happen; too skilled to be that sloppy, and not in the mood to ruin his ride.

Although, he'd had enough of playing around. The fantasy of the nameless sporty mech that he'd crafted in his head was enough to push Perceptor to the boundaries of his patience, and he was _way_ overheated.

So Perceptor solved that problem by pressing his spike-toy into his valve as deep as it would go, and flicked a switch that caused it to magnetize in place - which added an extra, especially _wonderful_ pull as he increased  the energy pulses, until he _whined_ and spread his legs wide in his seat. The scientist's mouth hung open for a long while. He gripped his chair with one hand and his spike with the other, redoubling his efforts until he was panting heavily and his thigh plating shook with the constant stimulation. He imagined his dream-mech again, zipping through various situations which were appealing to him: getting his spike sucked while the mech put his fingers in his valve, playing with his own equipment in the meanwhile, getting up in his lap and riding him, grinding up against him and moaning the whole time, their engines revving together, feeling the heat and energy of another person pressed up against him -

Overload ripped through him in a wave. Electric blue light crackled over his frame and then snapped out until Perceptor arched sharply, systems popping offline in a rush while he clamped down around the toy inside of him and squeezed around the base of his spike, his own transfluids spattering his midsection, the excess seeping down over his fingers as he went slack in his chair, slipping a little in his own lubricant. Only a little. Perceptor managed to catch himself and switch off the energy vibrations before it could get _too_ clumsy. As he wound down from his climax, Perceptor groaned quietly to himself, onlining his optics again when he thought about it and sitting himself up slowly. He tugged the toy out of his valve with a wet sound slipping over his audios, barely audible over his over-worked vents fighting to keep him cool. He almost missed the way the spike-toy had filled him, but Perceptor wasn't too beat up about it. It was within arm's reach whenever he wanted it, after all.

And, honestly, the only thing that ended up killing Perceptor's good mood - as he got up, still shaking a little, from his chair, to go clean himself and his little helper and put it away in a locked drawer - was the fact that when he rose, he saw sea-greens and cool grays and a gold-colored facemask over a mouth that Perceptor distinctly remembered had an awful lot of trouble shutting up.

Perceptor became acutely aware of the fact that Brainstorm was staring at him with a freshly-used toy in his hand, but that still didn't sting as much as the comment which followed, with Brainstorm squinting his yellow optics at the sharpshooter in absolute glee. "Want some help with the clean-up?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOOOPS I'm not satisfied with leaving it here
> 
> I guess this is going to be another fanciful trip into the wonderful world of IT'S TIME TO MAKE ANOTHER PAIRING SERIES
> 
> Bit of a downer ending after the lovely self-service from the last chapter though, weh. So sorry about that. I'm sure it'll get better.

The first emotion to cross Perceptor's processors was not shock.

It was _dread._

Brainstorm was watching him like a sparkling who was waiting to receive a gift, and here he was still standing with a warm, fluid-coated spike-toy in his hand, the evidence of his self-service still stained thickly across his paneling and thighs, and Perceptor frankly couldn't care less about being caught - he could explain that away, he had the practice of many, many years behind him on that. What he cared about was he'd been caught by _Brainstorm._

Managing to collect himself enough for an answer, there wasn't so much an immediate denial as there was a scathing confusion. "I had locked that door."

"So you had!" Brainstorm's wings flicked up in a short gesture of agreement, "And I overrode it with my own codes 'cause I had to pick something up from in here to borrow. Figured you wouldn't mind, I'd be giving it back in a few solar cycles or so."

Irritation flashed across the sniper's face. "You couldn't _knock?_ "

The pale-colored flying unit shrugged back at him and pointed out, "Well, it ain't like I could tell you were in the _middle_ of somethin'." His optics started to rake down Perceptor's frame, lingering in places longer than the red scientist liked, and when he saw Brainstorm's invasive gaze settling on his interface array, Perceptor swiftly switched directions on his pedes and went for the lab's cleaning station.

"Code-locked doors typically denote a message of _Do Not Enter,_ Brainstorm."

"Alright, alright, I'll keep that in mind next time." His assurance brought Perceptor no comfort; the sniper grunted grumpily and half-heartedly tossed his toy into the small cleaning sink they used to sterilize their hands and switched the spray of coolant on over it. While he did that, he took two steps over from there to the chemical shower, freezing-cold coolant stinging his overheated frame with a harshness twice its usual bite because of the temperature difference. His armor contracted painfully and pinged in loud popping noises as he tried to force his core temperature to drop back down.

How long since he'd felt the need to do this after a session?

Some moments passed that Perceptor had to himself, but then, just as he thought he'd lost himself under the spray of purifying coolant -

"Are you seriously _still going?_ "

Spatting angry heat through his vents as he opened them up wide, Perceptor flicked his optics over in a bitter gaze at his coworker and current thorn in his side. One didn't have to look very hard to see the obvious, fresh trickles of silvery lubricant blending with the coolant running down his thighs, but still, the question was grossly unwarranted and pulled Perceptor back into bitter memories of his Academy days.

"Don't worry, that's no fault of _yours._ " He snapped.

Which, _wow,_ that wasn't right, and yet just as Perceptor thought about taking it back, he recanted that idea and let the bite of his impromptu insult hang in the air, leaving the unspoken prayer that it would be harsh enough to deter intelligent, overly-curious fliers from his lab.

Instead...

" _Damn_!" Brainstorm snapped his fingers, igniting sparks between the tips from the friction. He shook his head at a sarcastic angle. "You got me, Percy. The jig's up. I was hoping my grand entrance would be so shocking you'd just fall all over me."

Perceptor's mouth curdled into a disgusted sneer that echoed hurt and alarm across the masked scientist's optics, and he turned his back to Brainstorm in a conscious effort to hide his body, his broad shoulders shrinking in, thighs pressing tightly together as he crossed his pedes. He tried very hard to make himself appear small, to shave away all of his custom augmentations and the sheer make of his height, like if he tried hard enough he could just melt down the drain with the coolant streaming over his body.

"Surely you've met a few mechs who tend to take a while before they're fully wound down after interfacing." Perceptor tried. He knew exactly why Brainstorm was lingering around, despite all obvious hints to his unwanted presence. In light of everything else failing, he hoped that if he made this sound trivial and uninteresting, that Brainstorm would simply lose his intrigue and move on.

Brainstorm wasn't biting. It hurt more than hiss of steam rising from his rapidly-cooling frame as he switched the chemical shower off and kept going with his clean-up routine, as if he weren't being watched. An interested tip of his helm, a cant of his hips, and then Brainstorm said: "Sure I have, but most folks more or less slow their fluid production to a crawl or totally _stop_ after they've hit overload."

Perceptor was tense down to the very last wire as he swept the extra coolant off his toy and dried it to prepare putting it away. And to add insult to injury, Brainstorm reminded him: " _You're_ still pumping that stuff out like you never hit peak and you're just waiting on the next round."

Never during the course of the War or after had Perceptor felt so ashamed of his own body.

Not since before he'd signed up with the Autobots.

"My core temperature's dropping to normal. It _will_ stop soon," he growled out. Perceptor didn't look at Brainstorm as he skulked over to his desk, apart from a _furious,_ withering glare as he yanked a locked drawer open after entering his code, threw his spike-toy inside, then pushed it shut again. "I'm not wired up right. I never have been. Every one-in-a-million mech gets forged missing their T-cog; I come out, I'm missing the shut-off mechanism in my fluid tanks. Happy?"

When he caught Brainstorm's gaze, the paler mech looked back at him with his amber-gold optics dimming thoughtfully. Perceptor caught his wings doing another curious, short little motion, but what it hinted at, he honestly couldn't tell - Brainstorm's face was almost completely covered and he wasn't an expert on emotional indicators in the body language of flying units. For all he knew, Brainstorm was just having a good laugh. _Ha ha ha, let's watch Perceptor clean up his mess. What a sad and lonely slut he is. Let's see what an even bigger mess he makes despite all his best efforts to cool off._

The response he _actually_ got, though, as opposed to the one Perceptor was expecting, was so different from the negative self-dialogue in his head that it threw him a little, and for a few moments after, all he could do was stare at Brainstorm in awkward rage and bewilderment, humiliation and fear and hatred twisting up into a hard knot in his tanks.

"Y'know, Perce, that's not anything to be _ashamed_ of."

When the shock of Brainstorm's honesty wore off, Perceptor handled the tension in his frame by revving his engine angrily. "Get out," he snapped.

When Brainstorm responded, he almost sounded sympathetic, but the sniper was sure that was just wishful thinking on his part. "I'm just sayin'..."

"So help me, Brainstorm," he cut off sharply, words slicing through the air and jabbing the other mech with each syllable, "If you don't pick up what you need and _get out,_ I will _toss_ you out, and then you'll have _nothing!_ "

Brainstorm had never moved so fast. He mumbled something (" _Alright, alright,_ " was somewhere in there), optics down, avoiding Perceptor's direct gaze ( _seething, uncensored glare_ ) as he grabbed the equipment he needed and bolted like his engines had caught fire. Once he had gone, Perceptor changed his personal codes and worked them into the door, locking it shut again, and then he collapsed into his seat at his desk to wallow in silence.

In all the unwelcome excitement over Brainstorm's presence, he realized he'd forgotten to clear up the mess on his chair.


End file.
